Mike reached the Common in a state of nervous collapse.

Mr Waller was waiting for them by the railings near the pond. The
apostle of the Revolution was clad soberly in black, except for a tie
of vivid crimson. His eyes shone with the light of enthusiasm, vastly
different from the mild glow of amiability which they exhibited for six
days in every week. The man was transformed.

'Here you are,' he said. 'Here you are. Excellent. You are in good
time. Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble have already begun to speak. I
shall commence now that you have come. This is the way. Over by these
trees.'

They made their way towards a small clump of trees, near which a
fair-sized crowd had already begun to collect. Evidently listening
to the speakers was one of Clapham's fashionable Sunday amusements. Mr
Waller talked and gesticulated incessantly as he walked. Psmith's
demeanour was perhaps a shade patronizing, but he displayed interest.
Mike proceeded to the meeting with the air of an about-to-be-washed dog.
He was loathing the whole business with a heartiness worthy of a better
cause. Somehow, he felt he was going to be made to look a fool before
the afternoon was over. But he registered a vow that nothing should
drag him on to the small platform which had been erected for the
benefit of the speaker.

As they drew nearer, the voices of Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble
became more audible. They had been audible all the time, very much so,
but now they grew in volume. Comrade Wotherspoon was a tall, thin man
with side-whiskers and a high voice. He scattered his aitches as a
fountain its sprays in a strong wind. He was very earnest. Comrade